


Dead End Diner

by swapcats



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: AU, F/F, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time to face the facts: you haven't been lying awake in bed at night, thinking about how Kasmeer Meade fits into a murder case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead End Diner

     The bell above the entrance chimes over the rush of the wind and the thrum of the rain, and the door swings back into its frame, muting the whine of a bleak November night. _The Dead End Diner_ is as busy as it always is at three am – there are more empty seats than there are shoulders hunched over meals – and one of the fluorescent lights splutters, washing out what little colour's left in the red chequered linoleum. 

 

     You take a seat in your usual booth, dropping tonight's case file onto the bench next to you. The tabletops are always a little on the greasy side, there's no being too careful; you grab the last of the serviettes from the dented box by the wall and wipe it down before taking your chances. The light continues to flicker between spates of stale light and foggy dimness, and the constant hum _should_ distract you—yet you've had at least three breakthroughs here in as many months, and the coffee isn't terrible.

 

     The waitress belatedly hurries over to you, heels clipping against the floor, and the first sign that she's new is the complete absence of a drink in front of you. You've been coming here for three years; a pot of coffee usually beats you to your table.

 

     “I'm sorry—the gentleman over there had a problem with his order, and...” She trails off when you don't look up from the case file. “What can I get you?”

 

     “Just a coffee. Black,” you murmur, finishing the paragraph you were reading and marking your place with your thumb.

 

     You look up, and,  _well—_ it's been a long time since you've seen anyone look so focused while writing such a simple order down. The waitress' eyes are fixed so hard on her notepad that you think she might be trying to burn the words in with her gaze. No doubt she doesn't want there to be another problem with yet another order.

 

     You smile at her. The shapeless, dull uniform does nothing to drain her, and for a moment, your mind isn't bogged down by the details of yet another unsolved murder you've been over time and time again.

 

     Besides, it's her first day. Surely that deserves a smile.

 

     “Maybe a little toast, too,” you decide, certain that she's looked that flustered all shift.

 

     She rushes towards the counter as though it's miles away. You're too busy squinting at what you  _think_ passes for someone's notes to notice the minutes tick by, and when she returns, the first thing you do is check her name tag.  _Kasmeer_ , it says. She places your coffee and toast on the edge of the table, packs of butter and jam spilling out between her fingers.

 

     “Thanks, honey,” you say, pushing the file to the side and drawing the coffee closer.

 

     You warm both hands around the mug, watching as she frantically pushes the sachets into a pile, hiccuping.

 

     “Is this alright?” she asks, eyes wide. “There's more out back—I think there's a tub of peanut butter somewhere, but I forgot to ask what you wanted, and...”

 

     “It's fine,” you reassure her. “First night on the job, hm?”

 

     She cringes. “Is it that obvious?”

 

     “I come in here a lot.” It's not exactly a  _no_ , but she seems less distraught. “You know, now that I—”

 

     The door slams open, interrupting whatever deep, insightful comment you'd only half formed. A gust of wind accompanies half a dozen uni students in, all of them desperately scrambling to talk over each other, all of them knocking into the edge of tables as they find a booth to their liking. One of them booms out about being  _so hungry!_ and you see Kasmeer's face pale.

 

     Every other club in town does two-for-one cocktails on a Thursday night. So much for easing her into the job.

 

     “Listen, if any of them give you trouble—” You open your jacket, showing her your badge. “Give me a call, alright? I'll be here for a while yet.”

 

     The sight of your badge startles as much as the sudden crowd, and off she goes, notepad in hand.

 

     From what you can tell, she handles the situation admirably. The patrons fall about themselves laughing every time one of them tries to order, but Kasmeer manages to power through. You keep one eye on her as you work, staying a little later than you need to—you've stared at the notes for so long that they make as much sense as the dregs in your coffee cup, and somehow, you're further from solving the case than you were when you came in.

 

     Kasmeer sends one last smile your way before abruptly disappearing, and the next thing you know, there's an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

 

     “Good morning, Detective!” Carys says brightly, giving you a quick squeeze before darting over to the counter.

 

     “Carys,” you say, leaning back. “Taking over from the new girl, are you?”

 

     “Oh—!” She brightens – if it's possible for Carys to brighten any more – pausing to tie her apron behind her back. “You met Kasmeer! Isn't she lovely? She only started last night and she's only got three orders wrong so far. She's _much_ better than I was when I started!”

 

     Carys beams, proud of Kasmeer's progress. She's been working there for over two years, almost as long as you've been stopping by for coffee, and while you can't say that she doesn't still make the occasional mistake, there are few people who can cheer you up after an endless shift with as little effort as Carys. All you have to do is be around her; it's infectious.

 

     “Make sure to keep an eye out for her,” you say, closing your case file and getting to your feet. “I'd better be getting home—I've still got a few hours left to sleep and shower before doing it all over again. Don't get into too much trouble, darlin'.”

 

     Carys waves you off, and you've got a hand pressed up against the door when you realise Kasmeer hasn't left yet. She's tucked herself into the corner of one of the booths, staring out of the window at much of nothing—this late into the year, the sun gives the impression that it's never going to rise. The window's all fogged up, and after a split second's consideration, you take a step back, dragging her away from her thoughts.

 

     “Waiting for your ride?”

 

     She starts a little, turning and blinking, taking a moment to parse the question.

 

     “Actually, I'm... waiting for the bus,” she admits.

 

     “Are they running at this godforsaken hour?”

 

     From what you can see of the street beyond, the whole world must be sleeping.

 

     “Not for another thirty minutes,” she says, glancing away. A little skittish, almost.

 

     For her sake, you drop the subject. You hold out a hand and say, “Marjory Delaqua.”

 

     “Kasmeer,” she replies, fingers subconsciously pressing to the edge of the name tag she hasn't taken off yet. She quickly takes your hand, shaking it firmly. “Kasmeer Meade.”

 

*

 

     Ten minutes before your shift's due to end, Captain Thackeray decides that you're the only one he trusts to respond to a call that's just come in. It's a standard robbery-turned-murder, which isn't to say that it doesn't take hours to assess the scene and talk to every possible witness in the immediate vicinity. By the time you step through the door of _The Dead End Diner_ , there's a hint of light on the horizon, but you doubt the sun will gather up the courage to rise for another hour yet.

 

     You just hope you don't smell like death.

 

     “Detective!” Carys calls from across the café, waving as though she's trying to shake her hand off. You can't count the number of times you've told her to call you Marjory, but her refusal to do so is hardly the least endearing thing in the world.

 

     “Morning, honey,” you say, dusting a little snow off your shoulders. “Looks like you're in it for the long haul.”

 

     “Tegwen's picking me up at twelve,” she says, and the lack of sunlight does nothing to diminish her enthusiasm for absolutely everything. “Just a few more hours!”

 

     _And then a few more_ , you think. Carys sets about fixing you coffee, and you take a look at your company for the evening. An elderly couple are inexplicitly awake enough to be sharing a meal over by the counter, and a middle-aged man who looks as though he's been awake for a year sits staring at a half-eaten plate of sausage and chips.

 

     And in the corner is Kasmeer Meade, staring out of the window. Waiting for the bus, no doubt.

 

     “May I?” you ask, gesturing to the empty bench opposite her.

 

     “Detective!” She takes Carys' lead all too well, attention snapping away from the window. “Of course—please, sit down.”

 

     You've been thinking about her, these past few days. Well, you've been thinking about her name, at any rate. There's just something about _Meade_ that you're sure you should recognise.

 

     You put the latest case file down and sit opposite her, gratefully taking the coffee when Carys brings it over. The stuff down at the station just isn't enough to keep you on your feet. Still—it's probably best not to mix good coffee with business.

 

     “Marjory will do,” you assure her. “All settled in yet?”

 

     “Not _exactly_. Some of the regulars, they order by number and I haven't memorised them all yet,” Kasmeer admits. “I probably wouldn't be so worried about making a mess of this all if it wasn't my first job.”

 

     “Really?”

 

     From the look of her, she can't be much younger than twenty-five. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding self-consciously. Everyone has to start somewhere, you suppose.

 

     “You'll be a natural in no time,” you say, not missing the way she glances down at the folder placed between you on the table. “—I've been on the clock since four in the afternoon. I can't even begin to _pretend_ that I'm going to get any more work done.”

 

     “Did something happen?” she asks, interest piqued.

 

     “Honey, in this city, something's _always_ happening,” you tell her, certain she doesn't _really_ want the gorier details. “How about you, hm? Are you stuck working this shift, or does next week look better for you?”

 

     “It was the only opening they had,” Kasmeer says, trying to shrug it off.

 

     “Don't worry yourself,” you say, finally remembering to sip on your coffee. “I'm sure Carys will trip over herself in order to swap shifts with you, once she realises what's happening.”

 

     Kasmeer laughs under her breath, glancing over at Carys.

 

     “She's been so kind to me already.”

 

     “She's a real sweetheart,” you agree.

 

     Kasmeer looks as tired as you feel, so you settle back against the bench, letting her enjoy the relative peace of the café. In the distance, spoons chime against mugs and knives scrape across plates, and Carys tells the old couple about the latest plant she's bought for her apartment's tiny balcony, gratefully taking all the advice they have to offer.

 

     Kasmeer idly glances over at the clock and jumps to her feet, suddenly aware that the minutes have been ticking away. “I should've left by now,” she says, picking up her bag. From the look of things, she doesn't have a coat, and the snow isn't showing any signs of letting up.

 

     “I'm almost done here,” you say, trying to stop her from rushing off. “I can give you a lift home.”

 

     “Oh—I don't want to trouble you.”

 

     “It's no trouble.”

 

     But Kasmeer's still trying to get one foot out the door, and you don't know why, but she makes it look as though heading out into the dark and the snow to wait for a bus is a better option.

 

     “It's fine, really—I'm sorry,” she says, pushing the door open.

 

     You decide not to push the subject, but before you can say goodbye, Kasmeer's gone, door swinging shut behind her.

 

*

 

     “Is that the report from last night's robbery-homicide?” Captain Thackeray asks, not looking up from the pile of paperwork on the desk as you step into his office.

 

     “Primed, printed, and awaiting your scrutiny,” you say, finding a clear corner of the desk to slide the report onto. “Hardly a challenge at all. Our murderer wasn't very smart—tried to pawn a watch with a rather unique inscription a block from his apartment. He stared straight into the security cameras for us. Almost flashed a smile.”

 

     “Good work, Delaqua,” he murmurs, not really listening to you at all. It takes him a long moment to realise that you're still stood in front of his desk, looming over him. He looks up, setting his pen down. “... is there something else?”

 

     “Does the name Meade mean anything to you? Could've sworn I heard it floating around the station a while back.”

 

     “Meade...” He hums, digging deep. “There was a murder—a wealthy business man owed money to the wrong people, if I recall correctly. But that was at the very end of last year.”

 

     “Cold case?” you guess.

 

     “Cold case.”

 

     Captain Thackeray leans back in his chair, narrowing his gaze at you. Whatever look crosses your face gives you away all too well.

 

     “We didn't handle the case—if it had been ours, you'd have been the first person I brought it to,” he says. “I don't know what you're up to, Delaqua, but if you want to know more, you could pay the Sergeant a visit.”

 

     He actually has the nerve to smile at the suggestion. You glare at him as firmly as you can without crossing the line into subordination, backing out of the room with a flat, “Thank you for the advice, Captain.”

 

     _The Sergeant_ , as Captain Thackeray calls her, works in a station twelve miles across town. For as close as you are, you don't run into her nearly as much as she'd like. Still, her work schedule's about as sensible as yours is, and you take a stab in the dark, assuming she'll be behind her desk.

 

     Going in blind pays off. “Marjie!” she says, more surprised than pleased to see you, at first. You can tell she thinks you're lugging some manner of bad news along with you. A few of the other detectives in her team look over—to them, you're just Belinda Delaqua's little sister, not a detective in your own right.

 

     “Don't look so grim, Bel,” you say, and a pat on the shoulder's just about all the affection she's getting with so many eyes on you. “I'm here about work.”

 

     It takes calling in all the favours you have, as well as promising that you'll sit down to dinner with her and your mother over the weekend, but Belinda relents and lets you take a look at the case file. It's a matter of pride—none of the detectives there want someone from another station solving the case, but when it comes down to it, family's family. Belinda has your back, no matter how much you roll your eyes at her and sigh, exasperated by her concern.

 

     You look over the file, once you're back at your desk. Whoever worked the case made a fine mess of it—the pages aren't even paper clipped together in the right order. Luckily, it doesn't take long to put the pieces together: Kasmeer's father was murdered after he couldn't keep up with payments to an unknown source, found dead in an alleyway the next morning. The company lost everything. The Meade family, too.

 

     The list of suspects is depressingly short. Bank statements tell most of the tale, though Kasmeer's brother, Kyle Meade, was called in for questioning and quickly cleared of suspicion. His alibi is water-tight: a local bar had him in clear view of their security cameras all night.

 

     Still, you've never been one to turn down a challenge.

 

*

 

     Within a fortnight, Kasmeer's bringing you coffee before you can think to order it, and has become accustomed to your three am cravings.

 

     “What'll it be tonight?” she asks, no longer pouring all of her concentration into a notebook. “Bacon and hash browns?”

 

     “You read my mind,” you say, chin propped on your knuckles. “Sounds perfect.”

 

     She brings your order over, and it really _was_ a good guess; you had to skip what would've served as your lunch break, and the gnawing in your stomach is on the verge of driving you to distraction.

 

     “Do you always eat here?” she asks playfully.

 

     “Not always,” you say, grinning. “I could show you some of my other haunts, if you'd like.”

 

     But Kasmeer just laughs you off, leaving you alone with your dinner. You've been finding yourself bringing work to the café less and less, recently, even though you only started frequenting the place for the unexpected inspiration it seems to seep—but you suppose you're allowed to take _some_ time to yourself.

 

     When she's not too busy, Kasmeer will hover your way, always finding plenty to say, even if she never asks you about work and manages to keep the subject firmly in the present. From the wide berth she gives the topic of her past, you'd think she wanted you to believe that she just appeared in the café one day, fully formed, sewn into the uniform.

 

     It's a little strange, you'll admit it. You're looking into her past, and here she is, thinking you only know what she's told you. One night, you bring one of your old coats around – she's your size, more or less – and tell her that you can't stand the thought of her waiting out in the cold every night. She stares down at it, and you think she's about to insist that it's alright, it really is, but she takes it from you, gripping it tight, swallowing a lump in her throat.

 

     It's as though it's the first bit of kindness anyone's paid her in a long, long time.

 

     Kasmeer has no idea that you're perfectly aware that she's lost everything. You want to talk to her about it, you really do, but you only ever see her in her uniform and she only ever sees you in your suit, and the café's hardly the place to talk about such a sensitive matter. You've offered to give her a ride home three times in total, but after the last polite, awkward refusal, you let the subject drop. She has her reasons for wanting to take the bus, you're sure of it.

 

     It takes another week, but the opportunity finally presents itself.

 

     A slew of break-ins keeps half the department busy, and you go days without having the time to stop by at _The Dead End Diner_ , but when you finally step through the door again, Kasmeer greets you with a cheerful, “Jory! How have you been?” You make a mental note, wanting to remember the first time you _didn't_ hate a nickname.

 

     She drifts your way between orders, lingering under the pretence of refilling your drink. Kasmeer isn't always as bright and bubbly as she wants people to think she is – you've seen her face pale as her thoughts wander more than once – but tonight she's certainly effortlessly full of cheer.

 

     Carys must be wearing off on her.

 

     “You were right about Carys,” she comments. “She came up to me, all flustered—she'd just checked the schedule and realised I'd been doing this same shift since I started. Goodness, I said it was alright, but she insisted that I take her shifts for the next week.”

 

     “It's about time. Might mess up your sleep a little, but it's worth it, if you actually get to _see_ the sun,” you say, fully aware of what a hypocrite you are. “What kind of hours are you looking at?”

 

     “Nine till six,” she says, grinning. She doesn't deserve a day-shift, you think; she deserves a break.

 

     “Look, Kas—let me get to the point,” you say, because you don't want to start rambling about the fact that you've just realised you're working similar shifts next week, what a coincidence. “There's something I'd like to talk to you about, and I don't think discussing it in a café, while you're on the clock, is going to cut it. I'll meet you after your shift on Wednesday—what do you think?”

 

     You've never had a problem being forward – especially not with women – but for a moment, you're convinced Kasmeer's going to shake her head and come up with some reason why it won't work. It's almost as if she only exists within the walls of the café, using the cover of stars to disappear into the black each night.

 

     But her expression shifts, and you realise that something close to excitement flashes across her face. Your heart sinks like a rock, certain you'll have to disappoint her; you've told yourself over and over that this has to be about work, about solving the case for her.

 

     You can't go into this if you're trying to get something out of it for yourself.

 

     “Alright,” she says, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Wednesday, six o'clock—I'll meet you outside.”

 

*

 

     You're running ten minutes late, thanks to traffic, but Kasmeer's waiting for you outside _The Dead End Diner,_ wearing your old coat buttoned up to her throat. You catch yourself smiling before you open the door and pause, reminding yourself that this is all business.

 

     You step onto the pavement and Tegwen pulls up behind your car, there to drop Carys off. Carys hops out of the passenger seat then proceeds to lean in through the window, kissing Tegwen on the forehead. She rushes into the café, excited by the prospect of a double shift. Tegwen waves at you and Kasmeer, waiting until Carys is safely inside before heading off.

 

     “Jory!” Kasmeer says, cheeks red from the cold. Her breath coils in the cold air, and you don't miss the apprehension behind her smile. “You wanted to talk?”

 

     “You're like a deer in headlights,” you say fondly, placing a hand on her elbow, gesturing for her to head down the street with you. “It's nothing to worry about, Kas. Honestly.”

 

     It's not exactly park weather, but you're hoping the cold will inspire you to get to the point. You find a bench in front of a pond covered by a layer of ice so thin that the next drop of rain will shatter it, dust off the snow with your sleeve and take a seat next to her.

 

     She buries her hands in her pockets, looking at you expectantly, legs swinging back and forth.

 

     Where to start? _Well, honey, I've been prying into your past lately, and—_

 

     Well, you can't do much worse than that.

 

     “Kas—you've known about my line of work since we met,” you say. You've always been good under pressure, but you wish you'd rehearsed this in the car. “A case has come to my attention, recently. A case involving—it's your father's case. I wanted to know if you had any objections to me pushing forward with it.”

 

     The moment you mention her father, Kasmeer looks away from you. She fidgets, knitting her fingers together and biting the inside of her mouth, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears. Her shoulders rise, and you don't rush her.

 

     “I—” she begins. “The detectives said that there weren't any solid leads, so...”

 

     “Honey,” you say, gently pressing your fingers to the line of her jaw, turning her towards you. “Most of the detectives in this city are good cops. Most of them do their job, and they do it properly. But things fall between the gaps. Investigations are—stalled, or halted altogether. Sometimes, money's at the bottom of that all. I can't promise to solve this case, but I never would've looked into it if I didn't think I could do _something_.”

 

     Kasmeer nods along as you speak, abruptly getting to her feet. You give her all the time she needs to pace back and forth; your father was as far from kind as they come, but to look at her is to know the exact sort of memories that are being dredged up all over again. You want to tell her that it's fine, that you won't open old wounds that have barely had the time to start healing over again, but there's no going back now.

 

     “I can't. I can't ask you to do that. You've already been so kind to me, Jory—you're willing to talk to me, you're always looking out for me...” She tightens her coat around herself as she speaks, looking as though she might relent, but instead lets out a sudden, shaky breath. “Oh, god. You know about everything. About everything that's happened, and—”

 

     You get to your feet, placing yourself in front of her. She stops pacing, and when she fixes her eyes on yours, you carefully reach out, fingers wrapping around her wrists.

 

     “Darlin', I could've read the case file a hundred times over and I still wouldn't have learnt anything about _you_ ,” you reassure her. “I'm a detective—this is my job. If you haven't noticed, I live and breathe it. You're not asking anything of me.”

 

     Kasmeer doesn't hold your gaze for long.

 

     Eyes fixed on the ground, it all rushes out of her at once.

 

     “I don't know if I'm strong enough to go through that again, Jory. There were so many questions, and the detectives, they thought _terrible_ things about my father. They were convinced he'd got himself into trouble, but... but he was a _good_ father. He wasn't in debt of his own accord, I just know it, I...” She takes a deep breath, trembling from more than the cold. “I've only just started being able to do things for myself. I don't know if I can...”

 

     “Hey, now, Miss Meade,” you say gently. “It's been a trying time, but I'm sure you've done plenty you'd never imagined you could, this past year. I'm not going to pry—I'm not going to accuse you or your father of anything. All I need is your cooperation. We don't have to rush into this, Kas. One step at a time.”

 

     She looks back up, repeating you with a shaky, nervous laugh.

 

     “One step at a time,” she says, then nods over and over again, resting her forehead against your shoulder.

 

*

 

     You have no idea what Caithe's surname is, and you very much doubt that she's given you her real first name. You gave up trying to dig anything up on her years back, deciding that you'd rather not know; good informants are hard to come by.

 

     She always contacts you when you're in need of a lead, though you've never once been able to actively reach out to her.

 

     The investigation starts at a crawl and only loses momentum from thereon out. The Captain humours your interest for the first week, lets you review evidence that was considered worthless, as well as tapes from the interrogations, but quickly enough you're called into his office, reminded that you need to work on _solvable_ cases.

 

     The next day, there's a note folded under your keyboard. People know better than to touch anything on your desk, and when you ask around, nobody remembers seeing anyone unusual come in.

 

     _The other detectives were right to confront Meade's son—though they were looking in the wrong places,_ the note says. There's an address scribbled beneath it, and it's simply signed — _C._

 

     As much as you appreciate the tip, you do wish it would've come when you had a little more leeway.

 

*

     _The Dead End Diner_ only ever closes on Christmas day.

 

     Kasmeer works until the stroke of twelve on the night before, and by some miracle, you manage to get off work at half-eleven. The café's no busier or emptier than it usually is, and despite the thin, fraying strip of tinsel taped along the edge of the counter, it's as though time doesn't pass in there. There isn't an ounce of holiday spirit in the place, which is, frankly, a relief.

 

     Kasmeer's busy clearing things up for the night and shouldn't have time to talk to you, but she manages it, somehow. She brings you a coffee and slides into the seat opposite you, and you're sorry to have to say, “I'm here on business, I'm afraid.” Thus far, you've done an admirable job of keeping her out of the investigation, and she hasn't asked any questions, assuming you'll let her know when you have good news. Bad news. It's hard to quantify, in situations like these.

 

     “Oh—let me just...”

 

     She gestures back to the rest of the café, and you tell her to take her time. A few of the patrons grumble when midnight strikes and they have to clear out, but by five minutes past the hour, there's nothing but dirty plates and half-empty cups to eavesdrop. Kasmeer locks the doors and turns off all the lights but one, and quietly comes and sits opposite you.

 

     “It's about your brother,” you say, wasting no time. “How much do you know about his gambling troubles?”

 

     “Gambling troubles?” Kasmeer repeats, brow furrowing. “I... nothing.”

 

     You give her a moment to mull it over, but there's no doubt in your mind that she's telling the truth. It's not easy for her, none of it is, but you believe her when she says she'll be honest with you.

 

     “Would it surprise you to learn he had a gambling problem?”

 

     Kasmeer looks away, slowing shaking her head.

 

     “Kyle, he... We used to be close. But these last few years, he just—disappeared. He never came home, not even for Christmas. Not unless he wanted something,” she says. “He used to argue with my father a lot. That's why the police suspected him at first, but...”

 

     It slowly dawns on you that this is Kasmeer's first Christmas alone since her whole life crumbled around her. You give her a moment of silence, covering her hands with your own. She doesn't quite manage a smile, but she hooks a finger around your thumb, and you wish you lived in a world where you weren't working from eight till midnight.

 

     “An informant of mine gave me the address of a—shady establishment, letting the world think it was a regular bar. Turns out there was a lot more going on behind closed doors. We have a team looking into it now,” you explain. “An old friend of mine, Braham, does a little under-the-table work as a bouncer to scrape by. I showed him your brother's photo, and sure enough, he'd seen him there more than once.”

 

     “You think that has something to do with it?” Kasmeer asks, pulling her hands back, hiding them under the table.

 

     “Could be. Illegal gambling parlours are all too happy to help their patrons rack up notorious debts,” you tell her, and instantly, a wave of pale relief crosses her face—after all this time, finally, someone's letting her know that she was right about her father. Every last thing that was said against her father can finally stop ringing in her ears.

 

     But this wasn't the right time to bring the information to her. You realise that now.

 

     “Come on,” you say, getting to your feet and holding out your arm. Kasmeer looks up, blinks, and before she can say anything, you add, “Don't worry, Kas. I'm not about to give you a ride home. We'll go for a walk—it _is_ Christmas, you know.”

 

     Outside, all the snow has melted and the streets are covered in an unpleasant slush, leaving clumps of grit and salt behind. Kasmeer walks arm-in-arm with you, clinging on tight for balance and warmth, you're sure, and in spite of the occasional drunk weaving down the street, it's almost peaceful out. Christmas lights stain the streets in eerie colours and music seeps from houses protecting themselves against the cold, becoming an indistinguishable hum as you wander nowhere in particular.

 

     “You know, when you asked to meet me after work that one time, I thought—” Kasmeer starts, leaning her head against your shoulder as she trails off.

 

     “You thought... ?” you ask, telling yourself you're a fool for thinking you know where this is going.

 

     “Never mind!” she quickly decides, and when you glance down, she's grinning.

 

     You walk a little faster than can be consider leisurely – the cold won't permit a gentle stroll – and when Kasmeer asks what your Christmas plans are, you tell her you're working all day. She insists that you head home and get some sleep, but you tell her it's fine; you'd much rather keep her company for a little longer. It's not until you see that she's shivering that you turn, heading back towards your car.

 

     “I very much doubt the buses are running today,” you tell her. “Let alone at this hour.”

 

     “Would you mind... ?” she asks, wincing, gaze fluttering over to your car at the end of the street. “If it's not too much trouble.”

 

     “No trouble at all,” you assure her, slipping your hand into hers for the last few moments of the journey. You squeeze her hand and she squeezes back, looking away, laughing.

 

     You unlock the car and Kas steps back. For a moment, you're convinced she's going to come up with some excuse not to get in, but she starts rummaging through her bag, mumbling, “Before I forget... _ah_!” She digs out a neatly wrapped gift, holds it to her chest, and with no small amount of hesitance finally presents it to you. “I got you something—it's not much, but...”

 

     You take it from her, unable to wipe the smile off your face. She's rocking on the balls of her feet, so you don't keep her in suspense; you immediately start unwrapping it, though the contents aren't exactly hard to guess at. “Kas...” you say, but the moment the scarf's unveiled, Kasmeer pulls it from the torn paper and wraps it behind the back of your neck, holding one end in each hand. “It's gorgeous. Thank you, honey—you really didn't have to.”

 

     “I wanted to!” she assures you, warm breath mixing with yours under the glow of a street lamp. She keeps her eyes on you for a split-second too long, loses whatever nerve she'd gathered for whatever reason, and averts her gaze. She busies herself with fixing up your scarf and with one last smile, heads around to the passenger side of the car.

 

     You drive her home in silence, but it's the comfortable sort. At no point do you feel the need to switch on the radio to cover it up; you just keep glancing at Kas as you drive, watching her stare out into the night, smile reflected in the window.

 

     “Here's fine!” she says suddenly, and even though it doesn't look like much of a residential area, you pull over, no questions asked. If you were a worse detective, you might follow her home.

 

     “I hope you can get _some_ sleep before work, Jory,” she says, opening the door and half-stepping out. “I'm sorry I kept you out so late.”

 

     “Hey now,” you say. “I wanted to be here.”

 

     Kasmeer smiles, gets to her feet and abruptly falls back into the car. She looks at you, smiling still, but seems very, _very_ aware that you're looking back at her; she bites on her lower lip and you're about to ask her what's wrong, when she places a hand on the side of your seat.

 

     She leans over and kisses you—only softly, only quickly, closing her eyes and making everything inside of you lock up for half a second. You lift a hand, wanting to find her shoulder, but she's gone before you know it, door clipping closed behind her; gone before you can say anything, before you can do anything.

 

*

 

     Time to face the facts: you haven't been lying awake in bed at night, thinking about how Kasmeer Meade fits into a murder case.

 

     You work Christmas day with a smile on your face that goes far from unnoticed, leaving people baffled—everyone wants to know what you have to be so cheerful about, working the better part of the holiday. Three people compliment your new scarf. The café reopens the moment it rolls over to Boxing day, and since Kasmeer doesn't seem to own a phone, you've no choice but to face her in person.

 

     Only she isn't working, the next time you stop by. Carys promises to tell her you were looking for her, but that seems a little too ominous, even for you. You find yourself with a half-hour break in the middle of a shift the next day, and you stop by, just to check. There she is, carrying four meals at once, like she's never got an order wrong in her life.

 

     Her face lights up when she spots you, expression instantly marred by uncertainty, and you lean on the back of one of the booths, saying, “Can't stay long—still on the clock. But how about we go somewhere a little different, some time? As much as I love the coffee, I'm not sure I can stand another night here. When's your next day off?”

 

     What you're getting at slowly dawns on her, and she says, “Yes!” pausing to shake her head. She tries again. “Wednesday. I'm free on Wednesday.”

 

     You agree to pick her up at seven from the place you dropped her off on Christmas morning. You arrive fifteen minutes early, not entirely sure where you're going to go. You have at least five potential plans running through your mind, but for whatever reason, none of them seem good enough. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel, trying to relax; _she_ kissed you. You've nothing to worry about.

 

     Still, it takes a year for the clock to roll over to 19:00. Kasmeer doesn't magically appear then, either; you crane your neck to look this way and that down the street, and slowly but surely, it hits half-seven. You tell yourself not to worry, she's probably just running late, and start every time someone comes down the street, even if there's no way it could possibly be her.

 

     Seven-thirty becomes seven-forty-five becomes eight o'clock, and then you really are concerned. You kept glancing down at your phone for the call you're not going to get, quietly reassuring yourself that Kas has had a change of heart. That's all.

 

     The moment she turns up you realise that you didn't believe it for one second.

 

     Relief washes over you as she slams the door shut, bundling into the passenger seat, arms folded tightly around her chest. You see her work uniform under her coat, and she blurts out, “Sorry,” voice thick with tears.

 

     She's looking away from you, shoulders up by her ears, and you doubt being called in to cover a shift at the last minute would reduce her to such a state. Reaching out, you gently place a hand on her shoulder, and she swallows a lump in her throat.

 

     “What's happened, honey?” you ask softly.

 

     “I—I ripped my dress,” she mumbles miserably, turning to you. Her eyes are bloodshot, welling with tears again. “My only dress. I wanted to look nice, and I—I couldn't take much from my old house, Jory. When my father was killed, I managed to take a suitcase, but I, I'd never had to do laundry for myself and, and I've ruined nearly everything I own, and my dress—it was the last nice thing I had. I-I'm sorry. This must seem so ridiculous to you, but I didn't want to keep you waiting here any longer.”

 

     Her shoulders shake and you place a hand on the back of her head, and still she reaches for the door handle as though that's it; you expect her to leave.

 

     “Kas, darlin'. You look just about perfect to me,” you tell her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. A laugh slips out, followed by a hiccup, and you brush your thumbs beneath her eyes. “Let me walk you home, alright? We can take your dress back to my place and I'll have it fixed up in no time.”

 

     “I guess—” she starts, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I guess you had to find out eventually.”

 

     The pair of you walk for a good fifteen minutes before reaching your destination, and you can certainly see why Kasmeer didn't want you driving her home.

 

     There's a strip of motels, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The sign outside reads:

 

**ROOMS 24.99/NITE**

**WEEKLY R TES – CASH ON Y**

**F ST WI-FI**

 

“I-I didn't know where to go...” Kasmeer mumbles to herself, hands shaking a little as she tries to unlock the door. She hiccups again, and you let her say her piece. “I didn't have anyone to co-sign a lease, l-let alone the money for an apartment.”

 

     There's a TV screwed into the wall, a table opposite the bed, and Kasmeer's suitcase is placed under it. It almost feels colder in there than it does outside, and the walls are paper thin; you hear the toilet flush in the room next door, and Kasmeer looks away from you, arms wrapped around herself. You want to tell her that it's alright, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, but a single word from you might send her spiralling back into tears again.

 

     No matter how long she's been staying there, it doesn't look anywhere close to homely: the bed's neatly made and everything's packed away, hidden from view. The only thing that's Kasmeer's without a doubt is the stuffed bear carefully perched on the night stand.

 

     She gathers up her dress in her arms, and without a word, you head back to your car, arm around her shoulders.

 

     Once you reach your apartment, a small but serviceable place on the fourth floor, Kasmeer's calmed down by measures. Her face is a little blotchy and she still sniffs, every now and again, but she doesn't look as though her misery is going to drag her down to the centre of the earth.

 

     She looks around the living room-slash-kitchen as you splay the dress out on the table, hunting around for your sewing supplies. It really is a gorgeous dress, all white and gold, but the damage isn't too excessive; she'll be able to wear it the next time you go out.

 

     “Help yourself to something to drink,” you say, nodding towards the kitchen. “There should be a bottle of wine in that top cupboard.”

 

     Kasmeer shakes her head, sitting opposite you at the table.

 

     “I'm alright,” she says, and she almost sounds it. The black curtains probably aren't to her liking, but she says, “This is a nice place—it could do with a little colour, but it's cosy. How long have you been here?”

 

     “About five years now. It serves me well enough,” you say.

 

     Kasmeer watches as you take the needle and thread to her dress, leaning across the table, barely blinking.

 

     “How do you know how to do all this?” she asks, one corner of her mouth tugging down.

 

     “My momma sews dresses for a living—she'd die of shame if I couldn't fix up a torn seam or two. I spent most of my teenage years fixing up my sisters' hand-me-downs,” you tell her, “It's not that difficult, but you'd never know how to do it without someone to teach you. It's okay that you're just learning these things now, honey—you've had a tough time. If you ever need help with anything, anything at all, you know where I am. You know where Carys is.”

 

     Kasmeer nods, looking down at the table. You think she might cry again, but she blinks it away, managing a smile.

 

     “I'm sorry I ruined our date,” she says, abruptly looking mildly horrified, as though she's not sure it's alright to use that word.

 

     “You didn't ruin anything,” you tell her, getting to your feet and kissing the top of her head on your way over to the sofa.

 

     If she hadn't exhausted herself so thoroughly, you'd prompt her to change and carry on with the evening as planned. You fall down against the arm of the sofa and she swivels in her seat, watching you for a moment, smiling slowly creeping towards a grin.

 

     “We can order in, if you're hungry,” you say as she heads your way. “There's an amazing pizza place down the road.”

 

     But she doesn't care about pizza, and neither do you. Kasmeer takes a seat next to you and you don't waste a second; you wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her into your lap. Hands on your shoulders, she looks down at you, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face, pressing her forehead to yours.

 

     “I feel kind of silly,” she whispers, “Dressed like  _ this. _ ”

 

     “Honey,” you say, bumping your nose against hers. “I could not care less.”

 

     You kiss her.

 

     You  _ really  _ kiss her. No one's caught off-guard, and you don't restrain yourself, kissing her cheek when all you want to do is press your lips to hers. Kasmeer hums into the kiss, arching up against you as your hands splay out across the small of her back. She tangles her fingers in your hair, shifting to straddle your lap, and every single plan you'd made for the date seems like pure agony, compared to this.

 

     Her work shirt isn't made of the most comfortable fabric in the world, so you slide your hands under it, fingers ghosting along her sides. She shivers at the touch, bites on your lower lip and—and your phone starts ringing.

 

     Your phone starts ringing and you can't ignore it, because you're a cop.

 

     You break off the kiss with a groan of frustration, resting your head against the back of the sofa. Kasmeer laughs, buries her face in your neck, lifting her hips when you reach down to pull your phone out of your pocket.

 

     “Captain,” you say through grit teeth. A burst of urgency comes through from the other end and Kasmeer kisses your neck. This is it; this is what hell must be like. “—I'll be right there.”

 

     Kasmeer tumbles out of your lap, face flushed, and when you stand, it's a little disorientating. You take a moment to get your bearings and remember that, right, you're heading to work, while she brushes her hair back into place.

 

     “Duty calls,” you say, wondering what on earth compelled you to become a detective.

 

     You rush into the bedroom, digging out a pair of pants and a shirt that look like they'll fit Kas, not really thinking anything through. “Make yourself at home,” you tell her, placing the clothes on the arm of the sofa. “The kitchen is yours—take a bath, if you want to. I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. There's money on the side if you want to take a taxi home, but don't feel like you  _ have  _ to... what?”

 

     She beckons you over, tugs on your collar and pulls you into a kiss.

 

     “I'll be here,” she promises.

 

     On the way to the station, you discover that the biggest downside to telling Kas to take a bath in your apartment is that you spend the next handful of hours imagining Kas taking a bath in your apartment.

 

     Your squad tracks down a suspect you've been after for months, and Captain Thackeray thought you'd want to be the one to question him. Usually, yes. Tonight, no. Tonight all the work you've put into the case against him is suddenly _too much_ work; there's no way you're going to be able to breeze through this.

 

     Three hours later and he's still sticking to his story. His story being that he _ain't done nothing, ain't never seen that guy before—_ for someone who's alibi consists of being at home with a dog who'll happily corroborate the story, he takes an excruciatingly long time to crack. This is supposed to be the fun part. You've got your guy—you know that, he knows that. Usually, you'd take your time. You'd let him sweat.

 

     But it's coming up to 2am. Kas is probably dead to the world by now, and who's to say that she hasn't taken that cab home? You wouldn't blame her. You've hardly been the most attentive host.

 

     You get the guy; slowly but surely, the frustration he's feeling rivals yours, and _okay, fine!_ It all comes spilling out.

 

     There's a round of _good solve, Delaqua_ and pats on the back, and you stare at the door, knowing how Captain Thackeray feels about his paperwork. “Take tomorrow off, Delaqua,” he says when you hand it in, frowning at you as though he can't work out _why_ you look so exhausted. “That's an order.”

 

     If it wasn't five in the morning and if the roads weren't so clear, you'd stick your siren on the roof and tear through the traffic.

 

     Kasmeer's asleep on the sofa by the time you get home. She probably wasn't intending to make herself so comfortable, not when she thought you might be back within an hour or two, but there's a washed dish and cutlery long since dry in the rack, and one of the towels draped over a radiator has moved. She's curled up in your clothes while the TV plays to no one at all, throwing light across the room.

 

     You step out of your shoes, drop your jacket on the table, and quietly click off the TV. You spend a moment just looking at her, overwhelmed by the urge to be as unconscious as she is; the day's stretched on and on, but in spite of all that, you're still on your feet.

 

     But the sofa isn't the most comfortable place for either of you.

 

     You kneel down – you don't sit, if you sat on the sofa now you'd betray yourself and fall asleep against Kas – and gently wrap an arm around her waist, murmuring, “Kas, honey. There's a whole bed for you to use.” She stirs, stretching out, sleepy noises escaping her, though her eyes don't open. The word _bed_ gets through to her and she nods and nods, letting you help her to her feet.

 

     Kas manages three steps before she wakes up in earnest. She blinks her eyes open wide, surprise settling into a smile when she sees you, though you doubt she has much recollection of rising from the sofa.

 

     “You're back!” she says hazily, leaning in to kiss you. She's a little off-target; she presses her lips to the corner of your mouth, laughs at herself, and proceeds to nuzzle your cheek.

 

     She wraps her arms around your neck, leaning into you, and it's—well, it's adorable, but not exactly conducive for moving.

 

     “Come on, Miss Meade,” you say, guiding her towards the bedroom. “At this rate, you're gonna fall back to sleep on your feet.”

 

     Kasmeer reluctantly lets go of you, and you swivel her around, hands on her hips. She stretches and yawns as you ease her towards the bedroom, waking herself up as she goes, and when she falls down on the bed, there's a certain clarity to her smile that makes knots of your stomach.

 

     You look at her, trying to remember what you're trying to remember.

 

     —pyjamas.

 

     Right. You should change. You shouldn't sleep in a shirt and pants.

 

     You definitely, definitely need to change.

 

     Only problem is, you do that thing where you go ahead and do the opposite of what your brain's telling you to. And for once, that's not such a bad thing.

 

     Kas' hands glide across your back as you crawl on top of her, settling on your shoulders, pulling you into the kiss. There's more urgency there than even you were expecting, though it remains slow and measured; your fingers ghost over her ribs, shirt sliding up as she rocks, just a little, beneath you. You place your hand on her stomach and all the muscles pull taut; she sucks in a breath, fingers tightening in your hair, hips lifting off the bed.

 

     “Aren't you tired?” she mumbles, nails pressing to the back of your neck when your lips graze the shell of her ear.

 

     “Not tired,” you reply, biting gently, again and again. “Definitely not tired.”

 

     You keep moving against each other, mouth drifting from her ear to her neck to her lips, over and over, and somehow, you convince yourself that this is all you need to feel. Heat pools in the pit of your stomach and she keeps making perfect, breathy sounds, and you can't imagine how you could need anything more—until your hands slip under her shirt and, oh, she certainly didn't put her bra back on after her bath.

 

     Kasmeer gasps, rolls her shoulders back to try escaping the shirt, and though you start unbuttoning it, fingers blessedly cooperative, Kasmeer loses any pretence of patience; her fingers bump against your stomach, completely bypassing your pants. She slips her fingers between your legs and you're heavy on your knees, rolling your hips against her, murmuring her name into her ear.

 

     Kas uses her free hand to grip your hair in a fist, but she just won't stay still. You reposition yourself, grinding down on the heel of her palm, knee pressing between her legs. Your hands move to her hips, but she already has the idea; she works against you, and the two of you keep trying to kiss each other, though the best you can manage is to catch her lip between your teeth.

 

     You've no idea when you fall asleep. Your alarm clock reads 09:48 when your vision finally focuses, and the pleasant ache rippling through your body tells you that you can't have slept for much longer than half an hour.

 

     You stretch out and Kas stirs sleepily beside you. You've no choice but to wrap your arms around her waist and kiss the nape of her neck, just to be certain she's _really_ there.

 

     “Good morning,” she manages through a yawn.

 

     “It's not morning. Don't let the sunlight fool you,” you say, kissing along her shoulder as she hums contentedly. “What time do you need to be at work?”

 

     “Not until six,” she says, shuffling around, pressing her nose to your collarbone.

 

     You've every intention of going back to sleep, you honestly do, but Kas is just so warm and soft; you can't get over the feel of her skin against yours. All you want to do is look at the way her dishevelled hair spreads across the pillow, framing her face, but then you're kissing her.

 

     Kissing her mouth, her neck, across her collarbone and down to her stomach; the duvet slips and up and up over your shoulders, and when you kiss the curve of her hip, her fingers twist in the bedsheets. You're distantly aware that you're moaning against her, and with one of her feet sliding across your back, sleep is a distant memory.

 

*

 

     In the morning – which is actually three in the afternoon – Kasmeer looks as though she's been hit by a truck and couldn't be happier about it.

 

     She hasn't had nearly enough sleep, neither of you have, but hunger eventually wins over, dictating that you untangle yourselves and migrate to the kitchen. There are dark circles under her eyes and she winces and laughs every time she reaches for something or stretches out, only to find that her body isn't cooperating. You'd offer her a massage, but you know where that would lead.

 

     You make her coffee, for a change.

 

     “I can't believe I have to work today,” she grumbles through a yawn.

 

     “It's your own fault,” you tell her, leaning against the counter as bacon sizzles in the pan.

 

     Kasmeer gives you the most incredulous look, jaw still dropped when you slide a late breakfast on the table in front of her.

 

     You drive her to work, determined not to spend your day napping. Determination doesn't get you far: you slump on the sofa with your laptop, and it's all downhill from there. You close your eyes for a second, just a second, starting yourself awake when some part of your mind realises it's already been half an hour.

 

     A few preliminary searches tell you what you need to know. You print off the results, definitely don't nod off before getting up and taking them from the printer, and fill the rest of your day with all manner of mundane chores, until it's time to pick Kas up.

 

     You keep the engine running and she bundles into the car, leaning over to kiss you before she thinks to put her seatbelt on. “I thought I'd never be done,” she says, beaming, beyond exhausted. She settles back into seat, belt clicking into place. “Hi! How was your day? Did you get any sleep?”

 

     You glance at the mirrors, pulling out into the road.

 

     “A little. Nothing to write home about,” you say, slowing down for a red light before you've had the chance to start. “There's something I want to talk about.”

 

     You spare a glance Kas' way and all that brightness has washed out of her expression.

 

     “Oh, no. No, honey, nothing like _that—_ ” You give her hand a reassuring squeeze before the light turns green. “It's just about your living situation. Now, I don't exactly know what state your finances are in, but there are—”

 

     “I don't know either,” she blurts out. You can feel her heart racing in the tone of her voice.

 

     “Pardon?”

 

     “I don't... I don't _know_. I don't know _anything._ I'd never had to worry about money before—I didn't even have to think about it. There was always enough, and now. Now I don't know what's too much, what's enough,” she mumbles, scrubbing at her tired eyes. “That's why I've been staying at that awful, awful motel. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't have anywhere else to go.”

 

     “There wasn't anyone to help you out?”

 

     She shakes her head.

 

     “My mother... she died when I was young, and after my—my father's death, Kyle was the only family I had left. I haven't seen him since before it all happened,” she says, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Everyone I knew before – all the friends I thought I had – didn't want to have anything to do with the scandal. They'd always said I could count on them, but when the time came...

 

     “Sorry. Sorry. I know how silly this must sound to you. You've already got your own place, an important job...”

 

     “Kas,” you say sternly, rummaging around the glove compartment for a pack of tissues. “I don't think less of you for any of this—the opposite, if anything. My momma raised four girls alone, and we never had much money. I _had_ to learn, and I had the lead of three big sisters to follow. Nobody wakes up one day and just _knows_ how to handle these things; someone has to teach us. You're just getting your start a little later than most.”

 

     Kasmeer sniffs loudly, blowing her nose into a tissue.

 

     “But let's not worry about any of that now, okay? I think we need to get you to bed—to _sleep_ , this time. All of this will still be waiting for us in the morning.”

 

*

 

     It takes a few more weeks, but you manage to track Kyle Meade down.

 

     He hasn't handled abrupt poverty as well as his sister; he hasn't even _tried_. He's still stuck in old habits, but no one's going to take the fall for him when he can't pay off his latest debt. When you bring him into the station, he's pointedly uncooperative. He slumps in the chair, arms folded across his chest, grumbling that he's already answered all your questions; he didn't do it.

 

     “I know you didn't do it,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice level, “But I know you had more to do with it than you'd like us to believe. Now, I only need one thing from you, Kyle—who did you owe money to?”

 

     Kyle bristles, teeth grinding together. His father's dead, his sister was left alone, and all he cares about is covering his own back.

 

     “I know you were gambling. There's no worming your way out of that,” you tell him coolly, “I have multiple witnesses willing to place you in a handful of illegal establishments—I've had a team looking into them for weeks, and they're all linked. They're linked to a lot more than your father's murder. So you can make this easy on yourself, Kyle. You can help us out, and maybe whoever's responsible will be behind bars before they get to you. It didn't take me long to find you. Imagine what they're capable of.”

 

     He's still reluctant to talk. His nostrils flare and his gaze burrows into the table, and as you stare at him, waiting for him to crack, all you can think is how _proud_ you are of Kasmeer. She was left with nothing but she kept on going, clawing her way up and up, and as much as you want to help her, it means the world to you that she's willing to fight so hard for herself.

 

     Everything you're doing here pales in comparison. It doesn't feel like enough; you want to do more for her, want to do everything you can, but no matter how you try, you're never going to be able to take the ache she feels into your own chest.

 

     Kyle drums his fingers on the edge of the table. Twice he tries to speak and twice he just huffs, looking away.

 

     “You're welcome to leave,” you tell him, but the fear's real, now. There's no one left to make amends for him.

 

     “ _Fine_.” He says it through grit teeth, as though you're not trying to find the man responsible for murdering his father. “His name was Evon, alright? That's all I got—everyone just called him the Black Lion.”

 

     You get to your feet and gather up the files you didn't have to delve into in order to twist his arm. Kyle stares up at you as though waiting for you to bestow endless gratitude upon him, and the only thing you have to say as you have him escorted out is, “Did you ever think to call Kasmeer? You're the only family she has left, whatever little it's worth.”

 

*

 

     Calling Kasmeer's new apartment _cosy_ is a compliment it probably doesn't deserve, but the important thing is that it's _hers_ ; she has a place to escape to at the end of the day, a place where the walls don't bleed noise and the locks are secure. Carys brings over flowers to brighten the place up and Kasmeer loves them, but whenever work allows, she finds herself at your flat.

 

     She's learnt how to budget and figured out where to buy clothes that aren't custom-tailored, but she still likes sleeping in your t-shirts, when she sleeps in anything at all. You help her pad out her C.V., and with a little persistence, she lands herself a job in an office in a busy part of town; it's nothing more exciting than data entry, but it's a start. Her schedule brings stability with it, and she does better for actually getting to see the sun.

 

     “You don't have to fuss so much, Jory,” she says, scolding you—not at all effective when she does so from your lap. “You don't have to pick me up every time I come over.”

 

     “It's dark out, love,” you point out, leaning back against the sofa.

 

     “It's _seven o'clock._ ”

 

     She tries to frown and fails spectacularly when you start playing with the hem of her shirt. Batting your hands away, Kasmeer grabs your wrists, leaning in to kiss you. You return the gesture with a little more force and she leans back, grinning once she's out of your reach.

 

     No doubt she expects you to struggle, to pry your hands free and pull her close. You expect it of yourself, too, only there you are, not moving, eyes fixed on her face. You smile and she flushes, grasp loosening, though she doesn't let go.

 

     “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

     “Because...” you swivel around, dipping her back. She falls onto the sofa, releasing your wrists in order to drape her arms over your shoulders. “Sometimes I look at you and I still can't believe you're real.”

 

     Her arms tighten around your shoulders and she pulls you closer, foreheads pressing together. It doesn't do her any good; you can see how red her face is, and it makes you adore her all the more.

 

     “Stop trying to make me blush,” she says, burying her face in your neck.

 

     “ _Trying_?”

 

     You laugh at her and she jabs her fingers into your ribs.

 

     You kiss the top of her head, wondering how things would've gone, had you never frequented _The Dead End Diner—_ you soon discover that you don't like that line of thought one bit and push it out of your mind, reminding yourself that _this_ is real. It doesn't matter what would've become of the both of you, had you never stopped for coffee there, because this is your life.

 

     Kas brushes her hair out of her face as you sit back up, pulling her up with you.

 

     “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I'd never met you. If I'd still be at the motel, if I still wouldn't know the truth...” she says quietly, thoughtfully. You haven't told her about your meeting with Kyle, not yet, but she knows enough to feel that she's slowly starting to understand what really happened. “I'm afraid that you're too good for me. That you'll just vanish, or...”

 

     “I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.” You kiss the corner of her mouth, pausing. There's no hesitance; just a moment of stillness, of warmth and reflection. “Love you, Kas.”

 

     Kasmeer tenses in your lap, gaze fluttering across your face as though her ears have betrayed her. You do what you can to meet her gaze, to keep yourself steady in the face of the downward pull of silence, but three of your heartbeats slide themselves between each second of the clock ticking, ticking, ticking above the TV.

 

     Kas places her hands on your shoulders, fingers tightening in the fabric, and her whole face lights up with a smile so warm you can't believe that you were actually _worried_ half a second ago.

 

     “Jory...” she says, leaning close, nose brushing against your cheek. Her breath is warm on your skin and her fingers ghost across the nape of your neck, and a poorly-timed knock at the door near-enough sends her leaping out of her skin.

 

     The moment of shock rushes out of her system and she laughs nervously, prying herself out of your lap.

 

     “That'd be dinner,” you say.

 

     Five minutes earlier than you were expecting, at that.

 

     Kas busies herself with answering the door and you lean back, wondering if you should start praying for the sofa to swallow you whole. Eyes closed, you hear the front door click open, and Kasmeer says, “Oh—” in a confused sort of way, like the wrong food's been brought over and she doesn't know how to break it to the poor delivery guy.

 

     And then, equally confused, comes your sister's reply.

 

     “Hello—” she says slowly, fairly certain that Kasmeer isn't you. “Is Marjory in?”

 

     “Jory!” Kasmeer calls out, but you're already on your feet, ready to dive between the two of them.

 

     Kasmeer and Belinda are smiling rather politely at one another, hovering around the open door. You narrow your eyes at Belinda; her surprise visits are just far enough apart for you to fall into a false sense of security in the interim.

 

     “Belinda,” you say flatly, hoping that she knows you mean _perfect timing_. Well, there's no avoiding it now; introductions are in order. “Kas, this is my sister, Belinda. Bel, this is Kasmeer Meade.”

 

     “It's nice to meet you!” Kas says, dispelling any awkwardness with a real smile. She really means it, too—she reaches out for Belinda's hand, shaking it heartily. “Unexpected, but nice. If Jory knew you were coming over, she didn't tell me—which wouldn't surprise me, honestly.”

 

     You can see the cogs turning behind Belinda's eyes, can see her latching onto _Jory_. If she repeats it out loud, you think, if she so much as _dares_ —well, you're not going to be happy about it.

 

     “I'm afraid this is a rather impromptu visit,” Belinda says, “I wasn't aware my sister had company—I wouldn't have intruded, otherwise.”

 

     While you don't believe that last part for a second, Kasmeer's presence has definitely caught her off-guard. In the best possibly way. You don't want to imagine what she's going to tell your mother.

 

     “Is something wrong?” you ask, just in case.

 

     “I was in the neighbourhood, and—”

 

     “And there's our dinner.”

 

     The delivery guy arrives just in time, saving the day. You reward him with a generous tip and Kasmeer takes the bags, excusing herself to the kitchen. The sound of plates being placed on the worktop fills the flat, and you stand with your arms folded across your chest, glowering at your sister like you're sixteen again.

 

     “Kasmeer _Meade_?” she says under her breath. “ _Really_ , Marjie?”

 

     “Don't call me that,” you say, sighing. “And this has nothing to do with the case. Honestly.”

 

     She isn't buying it for a second.

 

     “I only came by because I'd heard you'd been making progress—there were some leads I thought I could share, but... well, I can see you're smitten.”

 

     You take a long, deep breath.

 

     God help you. God help her.

 

     “If you want to talk business, come down to the station,” you say. “As for now—we're busy. Kas is all frazzled. You can't just turn up out of the blue like this.”

 

     It doesn't matter how stern you try to be. Belinda only smirks at you, and says, “She's gorgeous, by the way.” She pats you on the shoulder and calls out, “It was good to meet you, Kasmeer—I'll see you and Marjory next Friday for dinner, so that we can talk properly.”

 

     She's gone before you can object.

 

     You stand in the hallway, brow furrowed, not certain if that really just happened. Accidentally or otherwise, your sisters have always had a knack for ambushing you. Poor Kas, you think. She definitely didn't want to meet your sister like that for the first time, if she wanted to meet her at all.

 

     Doing what you can to shake it off, you join Kas in the kitchen. She's digging dinner out of the cartons and splitting it into equal portions across the plates, a bottle of wine already uncorked between them. Good, you think. You're going to need the whole thing to yourself.

 

     Kas looks up and grins, wincing in sympathy when your shoulders slump. She steps across the kitchen, wraps her arms around your waist and leans into you. The small of your back bumps against the worktop and you place a hand on the back of her head, saying, “That's certainly not how I pictured the evening unfolding.”

 

     Kasmeer laughs against your neck and leaves kisses behind, fingers hooking around the belt loops of your pants. You tilt her chin up, kissing her, but that doesn't sate her; she pushes against you, one leg sliding between your own. Somehow, in the midst of the kiss, you're coherent enough to say, “Honey, dinner's going to get cold...”

 

     Kas pouts, thumbs finding their way to your hipbones.

 

     “But I love you...” she murmurs softly, and really, she makes an _excellent_ point.

 

*

 

     Spring makes a few grumbled threats, but doesn't do much to roll over the city. The air still smells cool and damp, and you aren't the least bit uncomfortable in your scarf.

 

     It's getting dark a little later, though. It's six o'clock and it's barely even dim.

 

     Kas is walking beside you, restless. She keeps alternating between holding your hand and holding your arm, drifting five steps behind you and then five steps ahead; at the moment, she has her arms wrapped around herself, and you're having a little trouble keeping up with her.

 

     You don't say a word about it. You let her do what she needs to, let her work all the frustration and anger and relief out of her system. When you cracked the case, you knew that you weren't going to be celebrating. You brought the news home to her, and she couldn't stand to be confined to the apartment; Kas needs fresh air, so there you are, heading absolutely nowhere.

 

     “So—so, what now?” she asks, slowing down. She's asked the same thing three times already, but you aren't going to meet her with anything but patience. “You've caught the right guy? You really got him?”

 

     “We really got him,” you say, fingers curling towards your palm. You don't reach out for her, knowing you need to keep your distance until she wants to draw you closer. “We're still after Gnashblade, the man he was working for. Seems like the boss doesn't like getting his hands dirty—but we've got the right guy, Kas.”

 

     She draws her shoulders up to her ears, carrying on down the road. You're a detective, you should be more logical about this; of course you can't solve every problem by taking her into your arms. You bundle your hands into your pockets, following her. She'll want to cry later, you're sure of it, but for now she needs to keep moving, turning her thoughts over and over.

 

     The case is closed, and the sinking realisation that nothing's really changed is wearing away at her.

 

     You don't say a word. You don't clutter her mind with more than she can bear; you simply follow her down the street, silent as a shadow. She's strong, you know she is, but it isn't what she needs to hear right now.

 

     Kasmeer stops, eventually. She sits on a bench, shuddering as though she's knee-deep in snow.

 

     You stand in the middle of the pavement, not wanting to crowd her. Her knees rock up and down and she looks up, after a moment, and you're in front of her just as soon as she's holding her arms out to you. She buries her face in your stomach, arms around your waist, and she says, “Thank you. Thank you, Jory.”

 

     And it stings, because you should've done more.

 

     “Anything, love,” you murmur. “Anything for you.”

 

     It takes a while, but Kasmeer finds her feet again. She slips her hand into yours and keeps a tight hold of it, shoulders bumping together as you walk. You drift through the darkening city, sun swallowed by the horizon, stepping from one lamppost to the next, until a familiar light ebbs out onto the dim street.

 

     You both stop at the same moment, and Kas manages a watery smile as you hold the door open for her.

 

     “Just a couple of coffees,” you tell Carys, and she reads enough from your expression to set about it quickly and quietly.

 

     You sink into a booth in the back of _The Dead End Diner_ , arm around Kasmeer's waist. Whatever was burning inside of her has become a low ember, and she breathes steadily, one hand on your knee. The fluorescent lights flicker above and there grease-stains on the tabletop, and Kasmeer knows beyond knowing that though the case is closed, you aren't going anywhere.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've written a lot more Kasjory that hasn't been posted to AO3. If you're interested, you can find it at http://swapcats.tumblr.com/tagged/swapwrites .


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